Priceless: Bought for the Sicilian Billionaire's Bed / Bought: The Greek's Baby

‘You are amused by something?’ questioned Salvatore as she sat down.

Jessica let the waiter unfold a giant napkin onto her lap. ‘I’m just hoping I don’t pick up the wrong fork.’

Salvatore gave a low laugh. ‘I remember the first time I left Sicily. I went to stay in France and one of my uncles took me out to eat in the most famous restaurant in Paris. I could see what looked like fifty pieces of cutlery at each setting, and the very crème of Parisian high society surrounding me.’

‘And were you scared?’ asked Jessica, for a moment forgetting all her nerves, the anxieties which had plagued her all day, about how the evening was going to end and whether she looked okay.

Salvatore shrugged. He supposed that it wouldn’t be particularly helpful to her to know that nothing ever really scared him. That men were there to be strong and doubts were for women—but he wasn’t going to invent a timid persona just to make her feel better.

‘No. I watched my uncle and copied exactly what he did. The only difference was that he left food on his plate. It was a thing that people did then, to show that they were not peasants, but I had the hunger of youth, and finished mine. Every scrap.’

Jessica nodded, eager to hear more. The unexpected glimpse into his past made him seem less daunting somehow. More like the man who usually chatted to her in the office before this whole sexual attraction thing had blown up in their faces. It made it easier to forget what this evening was about and to pretend that they were alone in this gorgeous restaurant for no other reason than that they liked one another.

‘And don’t tell me,’ she teased, ‘that no food has ever tasted as good as the meal you ate that night?’

He shook his dark head. ‘On the contrary,’ he demurred softly. ‘They had messed around with the menu so that everything I ate was almost unrecognisable as the original ingredient. The best food of all is simple, and fresh—the fresher the better. The fish you pull from the water yourself and throw onto the flames. The rabbit whose blood is still warm and which goes straight into the pot. And no orange is sweeter than the one plucked from the tree.’ But other appetites had been satisfied that night, he recalled, with an ache of nostalgia.

He remembered the beautiful waitress who had slipped him her phone number while his uncle was paying the bill. Later, he remembered sneaking out to her tiny room close to the Sacre Coeur and the long, sensual night which had followed. The sound of the church bell striking the hour and voices shouting in the street outside as she had moaned her pleasure beneath him. The bowl of strong, sweet coffee he had drunk amid the rumpled sheets in the morning. How sharpened his senses had been then.

He stared at Jessica, at the way her hair hung in two shiny wings by the side of her face, and he felt an unexpectedly savage kick of lust. He wanted her, he realised, with a sharp hunger he had not felt in a long time.

All weekend he had thought about just how much he wanted her and how her sweet, flowering perfume had invaded his senses. He felt a pulse beating deep at his groin. Maybe he just liked the kind of woman who would never make any demands on him.

The waiter came over with two glasses of champagne and made as if to leave them alone with their menus, but Salvatore waved him back, eager for the formality and constraints of the meal to be over. ‘Shall we order?’ he questioned unevenly.

‘Yes, of course.’ He might as well have announced, Let’s get it over with! Jessica knew exactly why he wanted to speed through the meal—she could read it in the way he was looking at her and the sudden tension in the air. The way his face had changed. The sudden tension in his body.

This whole occasion was a formality, she reminded herself painfully—it wasn’t real, it was phoney. And suddenly the nerves which had been simmering away came bubbling up to the surface. She forced a smile, clasping her hands together so he couldn’t see them trembling. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘Let’s have steak, and salad, oh, and a half bottle of Barolo,’ he added, glancing up at the waiter and then leaning back in his chair to study her once the man had gone. ‘So where do you usually go to eat?’ he questioned politely.

‘Small independents, mainly,’ she answered, horribly aware that they were now going through the motions of having a conversation. As if Salvatore really cared where she normally ate! ‘Though it’s hard when there are so many chains. I’m not really mad about—’

‘You’re looking very … delectable tonight,’ he cut in softly.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, you are. Almost unrecognisable. That colour suits you.’

‘Thank you.’ Nervously, Jessica licked her bottom lip as she responded to a compliment she wasn’t really sure she merited. It was another borrowed outfit, loaned once again by Willow, but given more grudgingly this time.

‘He’s taking you out again?’ Willow had demanded in disbelief when Jessica had arrived back from work, pale-faced with shock as she’d shared her news.

‘That’s right. For dinner.’

She hadn’t said why. She hadn’t dared. She found it hard to believe it herself—that she should be pursuing something which had the power to wreck her admittedly dull, but relatively ordered life. She had been the one who had wanted this evening to happen and yet now it had arrived she felt as flat as a punctured balloon.

And that was the trouble. When Salvatore had taken her to that dinner party she’d had nothing to lose—she had been there acting as his girlfriend. She had been given a role and known how to play it. But tonight was different. The meal was one that she had demanded in order to put a gloss of respectability over something which wasn’t respectable at all. She was contemplating going to bed with her boss.

Tonight she was here as herself and never had the differences between them seemed so glaringly obvious. Had she really thought that they could just sit through a meal together and then go off to have sex as if it were the most natural thing in the world? Didn’t matter how much she wanted him or how long she’d had a stupid crush on him—deep down she knew this was wrong. It had to be wrong, surely, when two people came from such different worlds?

Jessica stared down at her plate. ‘It was a mistake to come here tonight,’ she said unhappily.

Salvatore surveyed the gleaming and neatly parted crown of her head, the way that her silk-covered shoulders were hunched in an expression of defeat. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because … oh, come on, Salvatore—you know why,’ she whispered.

‘I thought you wanted to eat dinner with me.’

‘Yes, I did—but maybe I was wrong to want it. Or maybe the circumstances surrounding it were wrong. Are wrong.’

‘You weren’t being so coy or so dismissive the other day,’ he said slowly.

‘I know that. And maybe I’m regretting it now.’

‘Are you?’ When she didn’t answer, his voice deepened into a silken caress. ‘Jessica, look at me.’

In the background she could hear the distant laughter and chatter of the other diners and the chink of glass and cutlery. Everything sounded as if it were coming from a long way away.

Reluctantly, she raised her head and stared into the bright blue eyes—instantly caught and mesmerised by their sensual light. She could feel the inevitable leaping of her heart, the heavy singing of excitement in her blood as she looked across the table into his ruggedly handsome face.

Had he known that would happen—one look and she would be captivated? Yes, of course he had. He wasn’t a stupid man and he must have capitalised on his undeniable power over women time and time again.

Reaching across the table, he took one of her hands in his, turning it over to study it. The nails were cut short and filed down sensibly and the skin was unusually dry. The women he usually dated had silky-soft flesh, buffed and creamed and indulged during their innumerable sessions at the beauty salon.

These were worker’s hands, he realised with a start, and suddenly he found himself wanting to pamper her. He had thought that this place might be a treat for her—but now he could see that it might be something of an ordeal. ‘We don’t have to stay here, you know,’ he said.

‘But we’ve only just ordered.’

‘We can cancel it. Go back to my place and have something there, if you’re hungry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘No.’ Their eyes met. ‘Neither am I.’

Jessica swallowed, because now his thumb was stroking a tantalising little circle on her palm. He was weakening a resolve which was already terminally weak. She looked at the sensual curve of his lips, scarcely able to believe that they had kissed her so passionately, and yet just the touch of him was making her shiveringly aware that they had. ‘Won’t it look … strange if we just walk out?’

Salvatore smiled. ‘Who cares what it looks like? I don’t spend my life seeking the opinion of others.’ He gave a shrug and his thumb began to stroke a bigger circle, and then to trace a slow path up the length of her middle finger. He smiled as he saw her eyes darken at the unconscious eroticism. ‘Come on,’ he ordered huskily.

In a way, it was the craziest solution of all. If Jessica had felt out of place before, then choosing to leave just as the waiter was bringing out the red wine and salad was guaranteed to focus attention on them.

But even in spite of that, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief that they were going—because anything was better than trying to maintain a façade that this was like a normal date, when clearly it was anything but. Of having to try to chew her way through a piece of steak, no matter how tender it was, when food was the last thing she wanted right now.

When they got outside she could tell him that the whole thing had been a bad idea and that it had all been a stupid mistake on her part. She should never have asked for this. But at least if she called a halt to it now, she wouldn’t get hurt.

The January air which hit them was bitingly cold and Jessica wished she’d remembered to bring gloves.

‘I think maybe it’s best if we just forget all about tonight,’ she said, pulling her coat tighter around her. ‘I can make my own way home on the Tube.’